The Rotating Stage
by GrowingAHead
Summary: Many of Batman's Rogues are mysteriously absent. There's a rumor of 'Bat-Sickness' spreading inside Gotham. Tim struggles with a personal issue that puts a rift between him and Batman. Then one night, a mass poisoning nearly cripples Arkham and a new villain sends a a message to both the Bat and the Clown. *Rewritten from previous "Many Paths to Night"
1. Chapter 1

Notes:

After much consideration, I've decided to rewrite "Many Paths to Night" because as much as the story is about the Batman and the Joker, TIM (Robin here - sorry, no Damian Wayne in this 'verse' - which is a 'mix-and-match' from various Batman verses.) turned out to be the main voice – much to my surprise. The plot remains nearly identical yet the viewpoint change does make quite a difference.

Also, there will be quite many original characters.

* * *

 _Once upon a time, there was a child._

 _The child walked into darkness._

 _And the darkness said to the child,_

 _"Shall we make a bet?"_

* * *

The rain settled heavily on Tim's head. A lock of hair kept drooping over his face and he brushed it away, irritated. The rain even _smelled_ heavy, weighing down on his senses along with the ever-present smell of grass and cold masonry of the place, heightened by wetness.

From his vantage point up on the tree in the courtyard, he looked over the grotesque roofs of the old building in front of him. There were always _some_ crows around the asylum, as if the universe fancied itself a stage director and took pride in setting up an appropriate atmosphere. But Tim knew that the particular crows he was familiar with wouldn't be here right now.

Crane's crows seemed to know exactly when their master was absent from Arkham.

The crows that _were_ around through, were agitated, flitting from one rooftop to another. This was due to the unusual buzz of frantic activity that surrounded the area - loud beeping noises and red lights of emergency vehicles going in and out, people in uniforms carting portable beds flanked with medical equipment, and the media crew. A live broadcast from GNBC was now flowing through Tim's comm:

 _"... while the exact number of victims from the mass poisoning tonight at the asylum is still being confirmed, it's estimated that there are already ten deaths among both staff and patients. The surviving victims appear to have fallen into a coma. Among such victims are some of the more notorious Arkham residents such as Jervis Tetch, aka Mad Hatter, and Arnold Wesker, aka the Ventriloquist..."_

Tim silently skipped around to the back corner of the asylum, mercifully free of such activity except for the presence of two guards.

Apparently the universe was quite unashamed of exaggerated direction this night, for an opportune thunder highlighted Tim as he flew in, even providing a sound effect a second later with the roll of thunder as he landed, causing the guards to gasp and stumble backwards.

"The Hell…!"

"Good – night to you, sirs."

Tim liked to think that he'd passed the phase where he relished every dramatic entrances. So he endeavored to downplay it – if only for the guilt he felt at the flustered guards. One of them he was marginally familiar with – although he'd never learned the man's first name, just the surname of Brennan.

The guards had recovered, Brennan recognizing Tim first. He managed a nod and a weak smile.

"Hardly a _good_ night."

"I understand that, Mr. Brennan, and I'm sorry. Which was why I was going to have a look around?"

The other guard tilted his head suspiciously.

"What, the masks are now coming in for food poisoning cases? I mean, it's bad but…"

Brennan quickly silenced his partner by shooting a look at him. Then he turned to look back at Tim. To be exact, Brennan was looking _over_ Tim. Tim quelled the small disappointment and annoyance that arose. He had been visiting Arkham regularly for a while now and he believed he'd built a rapport between some of the staff. And yet... at times like this, the whole of Arkham reverted to that look. It helped little that Dick, Jason, and Barbara herself during her time as Batgirl – all had experienced it whenever they happened to drop by Arkham without Bruce. The inmates and the staff would keep looking over their shoulders as well as around them, trying to spot another presence. You could practically feel them thinking: 'Oh, you mean it's just... _you_?'

 _You call a friend for keeping company. But when you get into an accident, you call your_ dad.

Outwardly, Tim merely said, "Batman has another matter at GCPD," he pointed up at the Bat Signal, blurred and a little feint against the murky night sky. "...so I'll be looking over the scene. Of course, if you have to get permission for me from..."

"You mean a _courtesy_ call, not an _actual_ permission – it's not like you'd be deterred from your investigation now, would you?"

Three heads turned to the source of new voice - which was a tall, lanky man that had appeared at the back door of the building. He had the standard white gown of an Arkham doctor, albeit rumpled and with rolled-up papers sticking out of every pocket. The man smiled at Tim.

" _Turdus migratorius_ (American Robin) or _Erithacus rubecula_ (European Robin)? Which one did we agree on? I don't remember we did? I think you said you being the former made more sense, what with you being an American cape and all. But you know _Turdus migratorius_ is actually a _thrush_ rather than a robin, right?"

Tim smiled back at the man.

"Dr. Cheng."

" _Dave_."

Arkham's Chief of Medical Division waved his hand as if to shoo away the title and looked over to the guards.

"I'll take over from here, briefing him and all that – it's been cleared with Marsellus. I know you flit around just as well as an actual _Erithacus_ but I think you'd be better off with a guide if you don't want to unnecessarily bump into medics and GCPD officers swarming the place."

Tim gratefully stepped towards the beckoning doctor, nodding to the guards as he passed them and trying to pretend that he didn't hear the guards whispering behind him. ("What's the doc calling him? I thought he was called Kid Wonder." – then Brennan gravely admonishing his colleague: " _Boy_ Wonder.")

 _Would you kindly look after the crows, Boy Wonder._

The content of the note hidden deep inside one of his secret pockets echoed in Tim's mind as he followed the doctor in, the imagined voice making Tim's insides go tight.

* * *

 **Act 1-1.**

"Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't."

 **William Shakespeare. Macbeth (Act 1, Scene 5)**

* * *

"Marsellus would've come himself to greet you, if he weren't so caught up with restraining himself from giving media the finger and assuaging the hysterical board of directors. The speed with which they assailed poor Marsellus is quite remarkable, usually it takes Herculean effort to rouse them enough to be up on their asses for anything. I think the only absent member is Bruce Wayne. I tell you, everyone thinks he's all _mien_ with no actual marrow but that man has wisdom enough to distance himself from the fire-spitting meetings such as this one."

The doctor absently fingered one of the rolled-up newspapers stuffed inside his many pockets, as others would rub their chins in thought.

"Although, I rather think it may have paid to make himself a bit of a showpiece in this case. In his absence, that Marsh fellow throwing his weight about, egging those idiots on."

Tim looked up at the doctor with curiosity.

"I take it you don't like Ronald Marsh all that much? He has recently donated a considerable amount to fund both the asylum and its projects..."

"Perhaps it's because I am a native Gothamite and I feel duty-bound to cheer for one of ours."

"How is Marsellus holding up?"

Tim was genuinely concerned. This would be the first real crisis that Marsellus was facing since he took over the asylum's administration. Dr. David Cheng shrugged.

"The man had been inundated with accusations of keeping his soul in a briefcase since 1994. And that's one of the less vulgar jokes. That sort of thing builds inner strength."

The man's remarkable resemblance to the gang boss character featured in the iconic movie hadn't escaped anybody, to the point where everyone just ditched his surname 'Willman' altogether when referring to the new head of Arkham.

'New' – Tim wondered how long the adjective should stick. After all, it had been over a year since Jeremiah Arkham had unexpectedly resigned and left Gotham seemingly for good. Everyone – including Bruce and Jim Gordon – tensed for the inevitable reign of absolute chaos in the asylum that was already a proper hellhole. Then Marsellus had stepped in and Arkham's legacy had since been divided between Arkham family's reign and afterwards. (Some jokingly referred to it as B.A and A.A – Before and After the 'Arkhams'.)

Marsellus had implemented some radical changes within the asylum: While Arkham's reputation for chemical studies and security measures were already set during Jeremiah's time, Marsellus made them into full-blown projects. Now Arkham boasted a whole separate building that served as a state-of-the-art chemical lab which was unique in the nation as no-one, except perhaps for Batman, had ready access to data such as Poison Ivy's plants, Scarecrow's toxins or the Joker's gas. He installed a resident building engineer to work with the security team that could put most private security companies to shame. Marsellus had also dedicated a whole team to build a digital database of asylum's records. Then the PR team – also newly implemented - liaised with various institutions all across the nation that were interested in such data.

Arkham was becoming a vast multi-research center and an information consultation hub.

Marsellus had also weeded out much of the previous staff of long-standing influence to bring in new bloods within the facility – although, given the institution's reputation, some wondered if he'd kidnapped many of these new staff and threatened them with grievous bodily harm. David Cheng was one of the more celebrated members of this so-called 'Marsellus Era' staff.

"Well, to be frank, perhaps not Marsellus. But Lily, now, she's the one who really needed to see you. What with how your last visit went."

Tim nearly stopped in his tracks.

 _"I'm speaking not only in my professional stance, but also of concern for you._

 _I don't think it advisable that you continue your interviews with Dr. Jonathan Crane, Mr. Robin..."_

"What did…Dr. McGuire say?"

Tim inwardly kicked himself, he sounded so accusatory – but thankfully, the man walking beside him didn't seem to catch it.

"Nothing, I'm just inferring. You _did_ look like thunder when you stormed out of here the last time."

Tim felt the flush of shame and anger rising – and of course, feeling it made the flush even worse, climbing up to the tips of his ears. He was grateful for the misty darkness of the asylum.

Quite unaware of his companion's discomfort, David Cheng continued, "If only she hadn't been hit by this silly poisoning business. Oh, perhaps you didn't know it yet? I keep assuming you masked vigilante types already know everything before anything happens."

People who weren't familiar with the current Arkham staff would no doubt consider David Cheng as either malicious or so apathetic to the point of being clinically diagnosed. Due to Marsellus' belief that competency could excuse nearly everything, the new staff tended to be of – if one was being polite - _distinct_ personalities. To the point where people sometimes felt that many of the new staff now belonged on the same side of the glass that their patients were in. Tim, however, had gotten used to them during his visits and could tell certain signs.

"I have the preliminary information about the victims although the number isn't exact - what with people being transferred from here to other facilities. I am aware that Dr. McGuire and many of the patients under relatively - 'stable' conditions are being treated here at the asylum."

As Tim spoke, he noticed that David had taken out one of the rolled-up newspapers tucked into his side pocket and was absently slapping it onto his other palm as they rounded a corner on the hallway, away from the frantic sounds of GCPD officers, the press, and grim medics. The man subscribed to all manner of regularly published paper and any sort of emotion he felt was expressed in how he fumbled with his reading materials. Right now, David Cheng was agitated and angry.

"You know she was supposed to be on leave until today? Except the idiot came to work this evening straight from the airport, she'd been to New York to visit Sharon – you know her story – and she always comes back feeling worse from that pristine purgatory they call Sinclair NY Psychiatry. I mean, ours have a personality at least – so she came to work had dinner here, and now she's in a coma."

The swinging of the paper stopped momentarily as the doctor pondered the idiocy of workaholics. In that moment, Tim noticed a headline on the crumpled newspaper - NY Times – and frowned. Although only a few words were visible, Tim could practically recite the headline as it was part of a series of news that had been bothering them for a while now:

 _"Red Hood Out of Control? The casualties from the escalating war with local gangs increase..."_

Oblivious, David went on, "Just a chance that I'm not in the bed next to Lily, felt like a takeout sandwich tonight for some reason. Heh, does that make me a suspect?"

Tim raised an eyebrow.

"You suspect foul play? Doesn't everyone think it's just an accident?"

"Well, _you_ are here."

"It's Arkham, you know how Batman and… the rest of us are with Arkham."

They'd stopped by the front of the medical ward. This was devoid of any other medic except the Arkham staff inside, because the coma cases had already been somewhat 'stabilized' here. Tim peered inside as he spoke, "That, and considering the expertise of current Arkham Medical Division, one'd have thought there'd be measures taken already for any ordinary food poisoning. Yet there doesn't seem to be any announcement regarding the nature of the poison nor the exact source, not to mention the exact treatment..."

Tim let the words hang in the air for a moment. Then suddenly, David started to rattle off certain words in succession: "Tropane alkaloids – hyoscyamine, scopolamine, and atropine - found in _Solanaceae_ family, very likely _Datura metel_ in this case. Aconitine, produced by _Aconitum_. Coniine, present in _Conium masculatum_ – "

Tim tilted his head. "Plant of Nightshade family, probably Devil's Trumpet, monskwood or wolf's bane, and – hemlock."

David beamed, "Very good. Most of the GCPD had trouble _googling_ them."

Tim suspected that the doctor probably hadn't won any fans among Gotham's Finest during his interview regarding the poisoning case. Outwardly, he said: "Names of toxins found inside tonight's victims?"

"And what remained of tonight's stew at the kitchen. No idea how the stuff got in there, though. And it's just some parts of the damned thing we've managed to identify. It's a cocktail of various toxic entities. Which is why we still can't figure out the treatment – and it's not just a fact that it's a mixture, but it seems to contain _mutated_ versions of the previously existing alkaloids…"

"…and the toxins are all derived from _flowering plants_.…"

The two looked at each other for a moment. Tim broke the silence first: "Poison Ivy? But why…"

David shrugged. "Only because other possibilities are slim. Like you said, our medical division isn't too bad in what we do but this level of chemical alteration… the only examples that I can state are those that have previously been studied within Ms. Isley's hybrids."

Whump-whump, the sound of the rolled-up newspaper marking the doctor's agitation rang hollow in the relatively quiet hall. The doctor intoned again, "Not saying she's the culprit, but the nature of the toxins heavily points towards her being the source of the compound, at least. Too bad she's not here to give advice nor defense."

"I understand that it's been a more than a week since her latest breakout."

"Another sore point for our dear security team. And she seemed to have been getting along so well - our feelings are hurt. Well, I suppose one will break out even from a five-star hotel if you're being held there. Which reminds me, it's been a while since I've heard of any of the _Names_ – you don't know anything about Nygma planning any riddle-related heist since he got out of here? I miss him."

 _I bet you do._

Tim replied, "No idea, I'm afraid. To be honest, it's been bothering us as well – been a while since we've seen anything of them."

David shrugged again. "Perhaps it's just as well they weren't here. It'd have been a mass panic on top of all this – there'd be practically no staff left to deal with them if they were here. Well, granted, I suppose most of them barring the Joker – never know how any chemical might react within that one – would've been knocked out as well. Just look at poor Tetch and Wesker."

Tim felt a ghost of that stomach-plummeting sensation he had when he first heard about the mass poisoning at Arkham. It had abated only when sense kicked in and reminded him: _He's not there right now, he's not there. He's_ fine _-_

Tim put a metaphorical foot down on that reminiscence. "Thank you so much, Doctor – Dave, I'll just look around the area and the – patients in the ward, if you don't mind."

David winked. "And that's the cue that you want to be left alone, right? Sure, just give me a call when you need me."

As he passed Tim and went back down the hallway, the doctor turned once and called over his shoulder: "Just curious, it's not because of that rumor of Bat-Sickness that the Bat isn't coming, is it?"

Tim looked back at the doctor. Honestly, the thought hadn't occurred to him.

"No." _I don't think so._

"Well, nothing in it, I'm sure. But people are superstitious and even if you're not, you're sometimes forced to accommodate those who are."

With that note, the doctor got away from Tim's vision and Tim was left alone. Sighing, he pushed open the door to the medical ward – left unlocked right now, staff getting in and out too often – waved hi to the familiar staff overseeing the patients – and crossed over to where Dr. Lillian McGuire was lying. Close, he could see the minuscule rising and falling of her chest, her blond hair that was usually in a tight, professional bun splayed like bunch of straws across the pillow, and the constant drop of the liquid that the IV was pumping into her system.

 _"Mister – Robin, I felt it best to inform Batman about you – your -_ situation _regarding Scare - Dr. Jonathan Crane. I thought Batman would talk to you. Make you understand. You're angry, of course. I'm sorry it had turned out like this."_

"I'm sorry." Tim whispered. Whether it was a sentiment for her current state or an actual apology, he wasn't sure.

He turned away from the pale, gaunt face – it was uncanny how the absence of a mind affected the body, he could hardly recognize the alert yet humorous psychologist from this – shell of a woman lying here. He wondered if that was how Lillian felt whenever she visited her former mentor and lover, Sharon.

His gaze absently traveled over to a small stand next to the unconscious woman - which had a stack of clipboards, files, and papers. Tim gestured to the orderly.

"These are…?"

"Dr. McGuire's work pile – nothing important, it's more for show. You see, it's Dave's idea that since she's such a workaholic that the presence of the familiar might rouse her or something," the orderly seemed embarrassed and added sheepishly, "Yeah, it probably sounds pretty silly to you – "

"No, I understand."

As the orderly went back to her duties, Tim picked up one of the files and absently flipped through it. Like the orderly had said, it wouldn't be anything important. The notes on the patients or any official reports were classified and for those, you needed permission or... more indirect means.

Tim didn't really expect to find anything related to the poisoning here, it was really a sort of preliminary exercise to get his senses revved up before beginning an actual investigation but something caught Tim's eye. It was a note that the doctor had scribbled. To anyone, it was exactly that – an illegible scribble but Tim was aware that Dr. McGuire always did her notes in a code of her own making – an analogue 'encryption', as she described it.

She was quite good at it too. It had taken Tim nearly two full days to figure out her code after he'd 'accidentally' picked up a few of her discarded notes.

Of course, he hadn't used any of the computers at the cave as it was just a personal challenge. However, in this case... Tim's brain translated the scribbles almost on autopilot: _Talk to Batman? Meeting with Tetch?_

Since Crane wasn't at the asylum right now, Tetch was her current primary patient among the Names, aka Rogues. But… Frowning at the still-cryptic note, Tim turned it over to the very last page on the file. His eyes widened a little. It was an empty report format, yet to be filled – but attached to it with a clip was a rumpled trump card. A fancy one, perhaps even custom-made, with an intricate illustration of black, red and green.

A joker.

* * *

Had Tim known that his mentor was staring at a very similar incarnation of what he'd found among Dr. McGuire's notes in that very same hour, he might have felt the directing hand of the universe even more keenly.

The joker card that Batman was looking down at was attached to a page of what could be described as a handmade booklet of a sort. On the facing page was the same Bat symbol that was a permanent fixture on the rooftop of GCPD office – drawn in what appeared to be black ink. Across the two pages lay a heading in letters torn from some magazines – _'Dramatis Personae'._

Jim Gordon fought the urge to shift his feet as the looming figure kept looking at the open booklet – as motionless as the gargoyles that adorned other rooftops of the city. The rain had dwindled to a light drizzle a moment ago and was now mostly gone. Small mercies. It'd have been awkward to have all these members inside his office or crowding around the stairway like some over-sized kids smoking in secret. Gordon glanced behind him. The woman and the man standing there seemed comfortable just looking at the dark caped figure studying their handout. Gordon seemed to be the only one here who was unsure of his role. Well, he knew what his role was, actually, the FBI agent had said it the moment she'd stepped into his office.

"May we ask you to summon the Bat for us, commissioner."

He hadn't been caught completely off guard, except for the blunt way that the request was put. He had received a call from his old colleague Brandon Walsh, now an agent at the NY field office for FBI. A heads-up for an old friend, Walsh had said.

"While I appreciate you letting me know that a couple of FBI special agents would be barging in here in about… oh, twenty minutes to inquire about our _rooftop equipment_ , I can't help but wish that your bureau had given us a heads-up a bit earlier,"

"I myself found out only a few moments ago. I'm only calling you because you were my least annoying partner back in Chicago days, Jim. Well, I wouldn't wish the Pulp Investigative Team upon my worst enemy."

"The… what?"

"P.I.T. From the Pulp magazines of the olden days, you know – The Shadow, Zorro, Doc Savage? It's not an official title as such, more like a bad joke. We call them that because they specialize in cases that might have been written by Pulp authors – criminals with grandiose names and costumes. But that's not half of it. If I give you details over the phone, you wouldn't believe me, Jim."

"Don't tell me they're after… Batman…. Or does this have to do with Red Hood issue in New York?"

"I think it's more like they have something for the Bat. Look, Jim, I just wanted to warn you to stay away from those agents and whatever they bring. Especially from Special Agent Tanith."

Special Agents Melinda Tanith and Sergio Lopez had arrived soon after Walsh's call. Gordon sensed that Walsh's warning might not have been enough. Agent Lopez could have been a textbook model for the FBI, dressed in immaculate yet no-nonsense dark suit and silent to the point of being almost nonexistent despite his considerable bulk. Agent Tanith was the one who apparently made up for the official normalcy of her partner – she was dressed in shabby black jeans and a black jacket that was a couple sizes too big as well as worn black leather shoes – giving an impression of something like an undertaker from a comic-book setting. But what turned heads as she stepped into the GCPD office was her face – where burn scars like spiky red snakes dominated, slithering all the way down her neck to hide beneath her rumpled collar.

"Not quite as symmetrical as your ex-attorney, right? Too soon?" were her first words upon noticing everyone's looks.

After the agent's… direct request, Jim Gordon had regained enough footing to counter: "And might I ask why the FBI would like to call upon Batman?"

The answer to this had derailed Gordon once more.

"Why, because we don't know how to summon the other one, that infamous Clown of yours."

As Gordon sat behind his desk, trying to find a suitable reply or a question, the agent had pulled out that damn booklet from her bag. Then came the story that went with it.

And now here they were.

Gordon hoped that the agents weren't expecting him to relay the whole story to Batman. He was still having trouble grasping it. He was relieved to see Agent Tanith step forward again, craning her neck towards the caped figure.

"Anything inside that thing mean anything to you? I mean, aside from that obvious front page."

"Should it, agent?"

Those were the first words Batman had spoken since the arrival and Gordon's introduction. Gordon felt a strange, cold sensation running along his spine upon hearing it, like a spell breaking. Perhaps the agent felt it too, for she answered with a shaky laugh.

"I just wondered, because I can't make heads or tails of it. And that's not usually the case. Actually, all this is highly unusual. We don't usually approach _Dramatis Personae_ this directly – because no-one would believe the story we have to tell them but, this time, we figured we had a chance because – it's Gotham, the Motherland of costumed criminals. And you, are a bat-man who swoops away such criminals. Compared to that, our story might sound positively banal."

The agent swiped a hand downwards in a mocking gesture of a theatrical bow. "My role here, as you might be wondering, is that of a prologue, a narrator. So I shall narrate: All this concerns a certain character that our team has been hunting for a while. We call this character – well, might be he, she, or they – the Director."

The agent took a breath. "The Director likes to stage dramas using people involved in crimes. What you're holding could be called his script. The _Dramatis Personae_ , as indicated there, are his protagonists,"

The agent had leaned against the Bat Signal. Against its light, Gordon could see the woman's damaged lips curling upwards in a sneer.

"What the Director calls his protagonists, we call his _victims_."

* * *

 **Notes:**

So it's a pretty cheerful incarnation of Arkham that I've envisioned here... I know 'cheerful Arkham' is like saying 'bitter sugar' but quirky Arkham staff bouncing off its... unique residents is something I enjoyed picturing.

I don't think I've seen Crane's recent incarnations keeping actual crows but in the comic "Haunted Knight", Crane had crows that looked as if they were trained by him, and the image stuck to me.

I try to research how FBI works but I am no expert and I do take liberties in how I write their operations. The Pulp Investigative Team idea is from the Pulp magazines of the early-to-mid 1900s. Some do consider superhero media to be 'successors' of those works.

As for the new head of Arkham, I'm talking about Marsellus Wallace from the movie "Pulp Fiction".


	2. Chapter 2

Warning: Mention of killings of children.

* * *

 **Act 1-2**

"What's Past is Prologue"  
 **William Shakespeare. The Tempest (Act 2, Scene 1)**

* * *

Tim wasn't sure what possessed him to swipe the joker card.

The police had been here before him. Surely they'd done their search. So anything they missed… Well, that really was their entire purpose, wasn't it? To see what the rest had missed.

At that point, Dr. Cheng – Dave - called to update the list of victims: " – and Ms. Hun, too."

It took Tim a moment to remember the name of Arkham's resident cook (Everyone just called her Madame Cook). Dave was still talking, "That at least rules the Joker out."

"… Just because he happens to like her cooking?"

"That, and don't you think this is too _sedate_ for his tastes?"

Tasteless as the doctor's commentary might have been, Tim had to agree. Still, if they were going by whose 'favorite staff' remained unharmed, then Nygma was their best suspect - as evidenced by Dave. Tim toyed with the idea of expressing this but settled for: "Somehow, I don't think this is one of our usual suspects."

As Tim spoke, his eyes trailed over absently. He had wandered down to the end of the hall that opened to a wide resting area with glass walls that offered a view to the back gardens. It was dimly lit by some garden lamps. Tim could see a wide patch of vegetable field. It must've been the mention of Ms. Hun that led his gaze – for he knew that the cook liked to cultivate her own vegetables, with some of the more high-functioning patients putting in some extra labor.

Was there something moving along the far end of the field? Or just a shadow cast by trees…?

"Dave, Ivy's last therapist, it was Dr. Jared Singh, right? Can you tell me anything about him?"

"Weeelll, there was a bit of a tension going on because Singh was trying to pick fights with Lily."

"With Dr. McGuire? Why?"

"You see, Marsellus wanted to assign Lily to the Clown Prince of Crime himself. And Singh had practically been begging for that position for like, what, three months? Except Marsellus isn't an idiot nor a sadist. Attaching Singh to the clown would've been like throwing a mouse into a viper pit."

Tim took a deep breath. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"It didn't seem very relevant. Besides, it's usual for Singh, he launches himself at some obscure goals. It's a tick. Last year, he jostled for Head of Medicine and then walked around throwing daggers at me with his eyes. Then he got this latest urge – in this case, suicidal."

"So Lily's latest patient was not Tetch, but the Joker?"

"Lily didn't accept. Actually, she's been highly averse to the idea. Can't blame her. You know, years back, Lily had seen firsthand what happened to Sharon… "

Tim nodded. Even though he knew the story of unfortunate Dr. Sharon Raman, it was difficult to imagine Lily McGuire actually afraid. She was not a typically tough-looking woman at a first glance, but she had a sort of malleable resilience that rendered impacts null as a sponge does. Tim had been impressed with the way she interacted with Crane, to the point where Tim had been envious –

Tim said, "Considering no one has anything flattering to say about Dr. Singh, I'm surprised he was assigned to Ivy at all."

"Off-the-record, he'd been developing this pheromone-blocker compound that'd render Ivy's effects null, and he wanted the data first-hand by testing it on himself. He's actually a lot better chemist than he's a psychiatrist."

"Yet he's not the Head of Arkham's Medical Division."

"Well, _I_ am here, Marsellus has to be realistic. And also, Ivy, to everyone's surprise, didn't seem to mind Singh. And before you ask the inevitable question, nothing of _that_ sort between them."

 _As far as anyone knows._ Tim thought. _And in the end, how much is_ that? Tim narrowed his eyes, wondering at another flicker of movement among the darkness of the garden. When Dave intoned 'You want to talk to him? Oh, actually, today is his leave…' Tim replied, "I'll get back to you, Dave."

Cutting off the call, Tim approached the glass walls. There was no doubt now. there was a sort of hunched figure bobbing up and down among the vegetation. Sliding to a darker corner so that he wouldn't be seen, Tim carefully navigated himself to the back door. When he stepped out to the back courtyard, he felt certain pieces click together at the same time as the cold, wet night air hit him. _Toxins from flowers, Ivy, cook's vegetable garden, the dinner stew…_

The hunched figure at the far end row of the field rose up straight into the domino mask.

The figure gave a cry and stumbled down on its haunches.

"Doctor." Robin looked down and saw that the figure's hands were filthy with dirt. He'd been digging with his bare hands. "What are you doing here, may I ask?"

The man was dressed in Arkham gown, despite Dave's confirmation that it was his day off. The man's head moved to his left, downwards. Tim followed his gaze. There was a small shoot bending with the weight of flowers dangling along its length, raindrop-littered petals glowing violet-white as moonlight washed over them. The errant black dirt from the frantic digging was the only thing marring their beauty. The fallen man's arm flinched towards it. Then he shuddered.

To Tim's astonishment, Jared Singh began to cry.

* * *

"But I did ask whether you recognize anything from that book. There SHOULD be one."

On the GCPD rooftop, the agent with the burn scars tilted her head and smiled again, as if enjoying some private joke.

"You know, I almost thought someone played a joke on me – our jolly office mates. The Director's MO is that once the _Dramatis Personae_ are identified, the script makes itself known through them. In this case, we're pretty sure who the main characters are but we have no idea about the drama itself. The Director never broke the pattern like that. But that thing at the end – we did some research and - that, that's the real thing, isn't it?"

Batman had, slowly, turned to the last page. Attached to it was an old sheet of a sketchbook – on it, an ink drawing of black, red, and green.

* * *

 _… And Bruce sees himself standing in a small room of Arkham's innermost unit. It is years ago, when the word 'family' only constituted of Alfred and Bruce's haunting memories. It is back when he still felt the weight of the suit separate from his own body._

 _It is a personal area of Jeremiah Arkham, a special room he only opened to some of his closest colleagues or the most important benefactors._

 _"You have a unique taste, Mr. Wayne."_

 _The Head of Arkham slides over to the billionaire. This assures that no one will try to break into their conversation. Jeremiah Arkham's piercing attention makes everyone in his vicinity feel that they're his potential patients, and his gaze, a straitjacket. Which explains why the other board members 'invited' into this secret space nervously wander around making light of the doctor's 'collections', desperately trying to forget the sensation that they're ants inside the pit of an antlion._

 _Bruce gives one of his plastic smiles. "I'm afraid I have very little taste in these matters, Dr. Arkham."_

 _"In both art and psychology?"_

 _Bruce doesn't answer. Instead, he sweeps a gaze around the area. Most are framed drawings and paintings, although there are a few sculptures of clay and even something like play-dough. Understandable since any hard or pointed materials in the asylum are liable to end up in someone's soft places. The drawings and paintings would have been done via vinyl tubes filled with paint or ink._

 _"I'm sure that art therapy is a very effective method but I have to admit, I find the 'act' of collecting them… rather morbid."_

 _An image of his cave with the monstrous card and increasing memorabilia flashes a bit of guilt in Bruce's mind. Unaware of it, Jeremiah Arkham smiles._

 _"These works establish a unique connection to my patients, I feel. These are their innermost selves expressed in most beautiful yet harmless ways. And, Mr. Wayne, I must admit that I was rather surprised to see you gravitate to this piece immediately. Something in it, it speaks to you, perhaps?"_

 _"I'm not sure I feel comfortable with the work of the criminally insane speaking to me, doctor."_

 _Jeremiah Arkham delicately frowns at the dull crudity of Gotham's socialites. Bruce hopes that will drive him off but to his private dismay, the doctor turns his gaze back to the frame in front of them. Encased in it is an ink drawing of black, red and green over a large sketch paper. It is obviously in a place of honor as it is the only piece that has a whole wall to itself._

 _At a first glance, it is a mass of scribbles that look like it was done by an angry child. Then certain lines pulsate into shapes – humanoid and beast-like figures, Whirling, writing, dancing, strangling, kissing, stepping on, over, tearing into each other._

 _"Perhaps I blasphemy, but I fancy it even reminds me a bit of "Guernica", or Hieronymus Bosch," murmurs Jeremiah Arkham, "and if you step back…"_

 _This he does. Bruce follows without thinking. The previously defined shapes mingle in a different way and seem to 'float' together like a hologram - into a larger, simpler form. Sharp ends curving upwards, like a crescent moon made of wires lying on its side, its center dip sharp._

 _Jeremiah Arkham speaks, too near Bruce's ear for his liking, "I rather feel I got two for the price of one on this."_

 _"Pardon?"_

 _"Well, something of the artist and also the one who brought him in here. Like that picture of a lady and a crone – a smile or a bat?"_

 _Bruce turns sharply. "You mean…? This is…?"_

 _"Yes, the one that calls himself the Joker. Whatever he is, you must admit that he has talent."_

 _"He – allowed you to display his – work – like this?" Bruce catches himself, "I mean, I heard things about that madman…"_

 _Jeremiah Arkham shrugs, although he momentarily scrunches up his brows at the word 'allowed'. "The man has exhibitionist tendencies, after all. I hold out some hope that such form of expression signifies that he is making some progress towards recovery. Besides, all of these works will be returned to their originators should they desire it so. And 'display' is rather an exaggeration, Mr. Wayne. For these works are only contained here. No photos or copies allowed. The few eyes that have seen them will only have their memories to carry outside."_

 _Jeremiah Arkham's words will turn out to be untrue. But only in hindsight. And through no fault of his own except perhaps of hubris. For a month later, the artist of the ink drawing would escape the asylum, the first of his many, many future escapades. Then an asylum security guard, upon being fired due some offense, will pinch the said drawing in place of the retirement pension he'd never get. Knowing there's a market for such, he'll put the drawing up for an online auction. It'd soon find a purchaser and be mailed off. Upon finding this, the artist of the work will pay the guard a visit._

 _The digital copy of the drawing as well as the fate of the guard would circulate for a while, keeping the public horrified and fascinated in equal measure. No-one except the elusive purchaser would lay eyes upon the actual drawing for years afterwards._

* * *

Presently, Batman simply said, "I recognize it."

Gordon intervened. "Is that also part of the… 'script', as you put it?"

Agent Tanith tilted her head. "I dare say it isn't. I think it was 'tacked on' - sort of like presenting credentials saying 'Yep, I'm the real thing, you'd better pay attention.'"

"To what, agent?"

Agent turned again to the immobile figure. "That is the question. We were wondering if you could help with that. But first, I'd better give you some backstory. That really is my role in this freak's scenario - the narrator, the Greek chorus."

Then the burnt woman started her tale.

* * *

"And the tale starts in a small town of Liam, Louisiana."

Barbara spoke, her inner librarian overtaking the Oracle persona. When Tim had returned to the new headquarters in downtown, both had called out, 'Have I got a story for you –.'

In the end, they'd decided to flip for it. ("A la Two-Face," was Tim's wry commentary, followed by Barbara's more cautious, "Wherever he is right now.")

Bruce had already briefed both Alfred and Barbara through comm and sent the scans of the booklet. Barbara was doing her own research on the Director cases when Tim had returned. Now she brought up multiple screens as she wove together the information she'd managed to mine.

"Years ago, the Liam Police Department received an anonymous package and inside was a hand-made booklet filled with collages – "

Barbara brought up the images as she spoke (Tim wondered if the agents that Bruce had met actually gave away all that data or if Barbara had just hacked into the FBI database. He decided not to ask.).

Tim leaned closer. There was a sheet with various letters torn from some obscure publications spelling out _Dramatis Personae_ and under that heading, a stylized alphabet 'C' made up of small, cut-up squares and a relatively simpler 'K' drawn in something like soot or pastel. The rest of the sheets were even more incomprehensible mixture of old document scraps, a skull-shaped button, mud and plant samples, locks of hair and cheap, childlike trinkets - and on the last pages, what looked like a blood blotch and another lock of hair with an illustration of a writhing serpent between them. On the back of that page was an old newspaper cutting.

Barbara continued, "The department chucked it up to someone playing a prank. But this booklet caught the interest of a rookie detective who began to study its contents in earnest. Huh, you know Tim, this page reminds me of… "

Barbara stopped short. It annoyed Tim that she felt the need to. Which was why he stepped forward to point at the collage himself and declared. "Yeah, thought that too, Babs. Kinda like that Crane case I worked on. This 'C', it's made up of cut pieces of a photograph - a face – here's an eye, an ear, a piece of mouth… By the looks of it – oh, it's - "

"Yes, a child, Master Timothy."

Barbara brought up a couple of news articles: "Missing Child: Kelsey McNab." "The number of missing children in the parish for the last 3 years staggering… Could Kelsey McNab have been the first of a series?" Pictures of a blond, smiling child of about ten adorned the articles.

Barbara spoke, "So, this rookie detective figures that somehow, this booklet may be pointing to the missing children's case. Soon enough, she is led to William Bledsoe, the parish sheriff."

Barbara brought up another picture, a stout man with a receding round head dressed in a suit that was a little tight for his girth – it must've been taken at some official party - and Barbara blew up a part of the man's lapel: Custom-made buttons, skull-shaped.

"In the end, the pieces were all there in the booklet – the plants and the mud samples were from a certain swamp area in the parish where the body of a child was dug up. Dental records proved it to be Kelsey McNab. And other missing children's bodies were also found along that area, nearly mummified by the peat. One of them had a skull-shaped lapel button clutched in its fingers."

Barbara took this moment to sip coffee poured by Alfred, who momentarily took over. "The scraps of old documents turned out to be deeds from Sheriff Bledsoe's family property – a forgotten shack near those wetlands. The Liam Police found a secret basement that turned out to be housing a collection of missing children's trinkets as well as locks of their hair."

Another article was brought up: "Leading community figure revealed to be a killer of children: Former Sheriff Bledsoe arrested…" "The case of Rougarou: Monster in plain sight…"

Tim frowned. "Rougarou? Loup-garou? What does a werewolf have to do with…"

"The case was nicknamed the Rougarou Murders – a monster from Cajun folklore. Aside from the 'shape-shifter' perspective, the sheriff apparently kept muttering that word during the interrogations, probably referring to what he thought he became when he did… the killings."

"Okay, but I still don't get 'C'. I mean, 'K' is obviously Kelsey…"

"Ah, a little twist there. You see, 'C' turned out to stand for 'Charlie' in 'Charlie Brown', which was a nickname for Bledsoe made by his fiancee at the time – Karen McNab, a single mother of Kelsey McNab."

"Hell," Tim muttered and Barbara gave a bitter smile.

"So yeah, 'K' for Karen. The day Bledsoe got arrested was a day before their wedding."

"Okay, but as bad as it was, isn't Karen a… background character? So Kelsey's more likely-."

Barbara brought up another news article: "Enraged mother becomes an avenging angel: Former Sheriff Bledsoe gunned down on his way to court by Karen McNab…"

On another screen, a picture of a woman holding a gun with a face like that of a stone angel stood side by side with a picture of a cadaver – possibly from a coroner's report – with a red-black blob where its head should be.

"The news headline at the time got rather carried away, it seems."

"It was a quiet town, Alfred. Getting a bit emotional could probably be forgiven. Now here comes the creepy part…"

"You mean everything before was the cheerful part?"

Barbara ignored Tim's comment. "Turns out, 'K' was drawn with gunpowder. And Karen 'gunned down' the killer of her daughter. Bit of a coincidence, isn't it? The rookie detective thought so. She did some more digging and found that Karen and Bledsoe had hooked up at a counseling center. The counselor had played a bit of a Cupid between them. People at the center remembered the three of them being very close. Yet, before all this happened, the counselor had quit and left town."

"Couldn't the detective track him down?"

"All his information had been inexplicably erased from the center's database. And no-one could really remember anything about him – 'Oh, he was the same as everyone else, very much your average Joe,' kind of deal. But Karen insisted during her interrogation that she'd _met_ the counselor just before coming to court. And she couldn't explain where and how she'd gotten hold of her Glock. She was diagnosed as suffering from trauma and likely, she'd hallucinated…"

"…But, it's also possible that this Cupid counselor really did meet her, gave her a gun, and suggested that she blow Bledsoe's head off? So what happened to Karen?"

"She was being held in the police department after she shot Bledsoe. She was found dead next morning in her cell. Cyanide poisoning. Ruled as a suicide. Although they never found out how she could've smuggled in a cyanide pill or when she'd ingested it with the guards watching."

Tim scratched his cheek. "And the mystery booklet never made the news?"

"No, not even when the second one arrived months later. Specifically addressed to the detective this time. The Liam Police Department kept a pretty tight lid on the whole thing."

"It seems that the FBI also follows their example, Master Tim."

"Well, I mean, it wouldn't do to advertise that the law had basically played a cat's paw to some… some… crazy _playwright_ …"

Tim threw one hand up. "I guess no points for guessing that the dogged rookie detective's name was Melinda Tanith. So she's moved on since. And this _Dramatis Personae_ followed her all the way up to the Bureau. Wonder why Liam was chosen in the first place?"

"Actually, Agent Tanith found that several of these booklets were sent to other police departments in other states as well. It seems that then-Detective Tanith was the only one who managed to follow through all the way. You can say that the first booklets were a sort of a resume."

"So in the case that started it all, we can assume that this elusive counselor was the… Director?"

"Or, as the agent puts it, could've been one of his 'crew'. She believes that the Director operates his own team. In all the Director-related cases, the roles like that of the 'counselor' were always 'played' by different men and women. Some of them the agent managed to apprehend. But they all either committed suicide or ended up in mental institutions after suffering some sort of sudden psychosis."

"Hmm, maybe this Director is a hypnotist? Sort of like Tetch?"

"That definitely is among the profile the agents gave to us. The profile overall is that of a skilled conman – a pickup artist, someone pretending to be a psychic, or a cult leader."

"So this guy –or a woman or an organization – randomly chooses people to star in their 'drama'. Then sends the 'script' to the hand-picked law enforcement to follow through."

"Not 'random', Tim. The _Dramatis Personae_ – or Director's victims as the agents call them - all turned out to be criminals in the end. Which is why the profile also includes -"

"Whoa, hey, what about Karen McNab? She was an obvious innocent…"

Tim looked at the two impassive faces staring back at him. Tim clucked his tongue. "I forgot. We haven't gone over all the pages in that first booklet, have we? The last page with the red splotch and the snake."

Alfred cleared his throat. "The snake, Master Tim, possibly represented a book called "The Cosmic Serpent" – written by an anthropologist that draws connection between biology and shamanism. But, what may be interesting is the full subheading – "DNA and the Origins of Knowledge.""

"The red splotch was blood," Barbara picked up, "stuck on laminated surface, easy for DNA testing. It was Karen's. The lock of hair turned out to be Kelsey's. The testing proved that they had zero biological relation."

"And the news article scrap…"

"It was about the murder of a woman named Linda Nesbit, 9 years before the whole thing…"

The full article was brought up on the screen: "On Monday, Linda Nesbit was found stabbed to death on her living room. Suspect is her child's nanny, Karen Morrow. Morrow is also suspected to have kidnapped the Nesbit child…"

Barbara turned to Tim. "Long story short: Karen McNab was Karen Morrow. Kelsey was the kidnapped baby of Linda Nesbit. Karen had killed her employer Linda to steal her child. Then she'd changed her identity and that of the child's - as a single mother and her daughter living in the town of Liam."

* * *

"Murderers,"

As Agent Tanith spoke, both Gordon and Agent Lopez looked at Batman. The looming figure didn't react. A stone gargoyle with eyes of reflected light.

Agent Tanith's smile contorted her face.

"The Director's _Dramatis Persona_ have all been murderers."

* * *

TBC -

Notes:

"The Cosmic Serpent: DNA and the Origins of Knowledge" is an actual book written by Jeremy Narby. I'm afraid I haven't actually read it. The cover and the subject matter, however, seemed fitting and intriguing.

Town of Liam, however, is fictional.


End file.
